


My Apologies Your Father is An Incompetent Bastard

by cptnfrddy



Series: My Apologies... [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptnfrddy/pseuds/cptnfrddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames are on the run from a job gone wrong when Arthur goes into labor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shit

“Shit.”

Arthur stared down at the spreading puddle below his feet and clenched the gun in his hand in a white knuckled grip. His belly tightened with a vicious cramp and he concentrated on breathing.

“Fuck,” he groaned, steadying himself on the nearest alley wall and wrapping his arm around his rock hard stomach. As the contraction eased, Arthur put a shaking hand in his pocket and tightened his fist around his totem. He rolled it on the dumpster lid beside him. Arthur glared, refusing to believe this was reality, even when the die rolled a three for the fourth time.

Even if this totem served him loyally for the past ten years, now it was broken.

This was a dream.

Arthur rubbed his stomach, attempting to calm the squirming child within, and angrily shoved the die back in his pocket. He was NOT going into labor in a dirty alley while thugs attempted to kill him for a job he had not even worked.

Fucking Eames who had agreed to help extract information from a corporate executive with ties to the Russian Mafia because he is an incompetent bastard who does not properly research job offers.

Fucking Eames who decides that when the Russian henchmen start shooting at him that he needs to come to Arthur’s apartment because he is a selfish asshole.

Just…. Fucking Eames.

Arthur heard a noise and quickly raised the gun in his hand. It was pointed directly at Eames’ face.

Eames quirked an eyebrow, shoving his own gun in the back of his pants and beneath the abomination that others would call a tweed jacket. “Just me, love.”

“I know,” Arthur responded, not lowering his gun. Eames chuckled and swiftly maneuvered around him, looking around the alley. After a moment, Arthur slowly lowered his gun.

There was a fire escape on the adjacent wall and Eames jumped up to tug the ladder down. He turned back to Arthur and pointed to the second floor, “The window’s unlocked. We’ll barricade ourselves in and wait this bloody mess out. Think you can get up?” he asked, inclining his head towards the ladder he was holding into.

Arthur glanced up. His bulging stomach would definitely be an obstacle and it would be a struggle to pull his heavy weight up that ladder. Especially since the most strenuous activity he had performed in the past couple of months was lug a shopping bag full of various foodstuffs from the supermarket two blocks down when the cravings would hit. And even that would leave him so exhausted that he would have to take a nap before he could enjoy his ham and marshmallow fluff sandwiches.

Arthur felt Eames come up next to him as a warm hand gently rubbed his sore lower back. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” he murmured in Arthur’s ear, amusement coloring his tone as he placed his other hand on Arthur’s large stomach. “I’ll wait at the bottom and catch you if you fall.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” he snapped, slapping Eames’ hand away from his middle. “And I don’t need you to catch me.” Arthur grabbed onto the ladder and took a moment to estimate how much momentum he will need to pull himself up.

“In all seriousness,” Eames said, his tone softening into what sounded like concern, “do you think you can do this? Or do you need me to find us another way in?”

“Do they still have the street under surveillance?” Eames nodded. “Then hold the ladder steady.”

Eames grabbed onto the ladder and Arthur pulled himself up. It was a slow process and the child kicking his ribs was uncomfortably distracting, but Arthur thought he was making good time with all things considered. At least until the steadying building pressure in back intensified and was soon paired with the painful tightening of the muscles in his stomach that made his breath hitch as he swallowed down a moan. He closed his eyes and clung to the ladder so he would not fall as all his attention was focused on the pain.

“Arthur,” Eames’ worried voice called from below. “You alright?”

He nodded, gasping for air as the pain died down. “Fine,” he rasped.

“Do you need…”

“No,” Arthur said, his breathing once again under control. “Just dizzy. I’m fine now.” To prove his point, Arthur pulled himself up and over the last rung with trembling arms and crawled awkwardly onto the metal platform of the fire escape.

He sighed and sat with his back against the brick wall of the building, rubbing his sore stomach while he listened to Eames quickly scramble up the metal ladder.

“Are you… Is the…” Eames kneeled in front of him, his hands anxiously hovering over Arthur and his enlarged stomach as he searched for any injuries. His hand settled on Arthur’s dark pants and his brow wrinkled in concern. “You’re pants are wet.”

“I fell in a puddle,” Arthur lied, giving Eames’ hand a quick squeeze before pushing it off his leg. “I’m fine,” he hurriedly assured him. “Now help me up.” Eames nodded, throwing Arthur’s arm around his neck and wrapping his own arm around Arthur’s waist before pulling him to his feet.

Eames pulled out his gun again and silently motioned for Arthur to wait against the wall. Arthur did so, watching Eames open the window and duck in with his gun leading the way. A few minutes later, Eames returned with a relieved smirk. “All clear, darling.” He held out an arm to Arthur, helping Arthur maneuver his heavy weight within the tight space of the window and into the empty apartment.


	2. The Shithole

The ‘apartment’ could be more accurately described as a spartan one-roomed shithole. There was a sink and fridge crammed beside a rickety table with a lone chair in one corner. On the other side, a beat-up couch faced a widescreen television sitting on a milk carton. A few feet away from that, was a narrow door that Arthur could only hope led to a bathroom.

A bathroom with a shower because after only standing in this room for a few minutes, Arthur already feels like he needs to scrub his skin clean.

Eames finished shoving the table against the door while Arthur locked the window behind him and closed the raggedy shades.

“… guns, guns, guns…” Arthur heard Eames murmuring to himself as he began moving around the small space of the apartment, looking in various cardboard boxes Arthur realized were scattered around the room.

Arthur felt the child squirm impatiently inside of him and he sighed. He felt gross, his pants were drying but the fabric clung uncomfortably to his legs. Also, he was not sure if the squishing in his custom-made six-hundred dollar shoes was actually amniotic fluid soaking through his socks or just his imagination. His back was aching from supporting the heavy mound of his middle during their long trek from his apartment and his feet were killing him.

But everything was fine.

Because Arthur decided so.

Because it had to be.

True, Arthur’s water had broken. But, even though he had not been keeping exact count, Arthur knew his contractions were somewhere around ten minutes apart. And from what he had read, even after the water breaks, labor may possibly not even begin for another twelve to twenty-four hours.

So these were Braxton-Hicks contractions.

And Arthur had plenty of time to get out of this apartment and to a hospital before he even had to worry about giving birth.

Because Arthur was not even in labor.

Because he had read about this on the internet.

And despite his appearance at the moment, Arthur was still the best pointman in the business. And as the best pointman in the business, Arthur always did the most accurate research.

Even research for an unplanned pregnancy that may not have been completely wanted by the two parties that were involved in the conception.

“Alright there, kitten?” Arthur looked up to see Eames placing various rifles and boxes of bullets on the table.

Arthur scowled. “If your would-be assassins don’t get us first, then the plague from this rat-infested dump will probably finish the job for them.”

“Ahh yes, but they will forever tell the tale of how they found our corpses lovingly entwined as we spent our dying moments in each other’s arms.”

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that right?” Arthur asked a smirking Eames.

Eames just chuckled and walked over to the couch, pulling off the cushions. There was a folded mattress beneath and Eames pulled it. It didn’t budge. “Bugger. What the…” Eames grunted, tugged on the rusted metal contraption until it finally unfolded and landed on the ground with a loud bang. “And now we have a bed,” Eames exclaimed, gesturing to the lumpy mattress.

“I’m NOT sitting on that,” Arthur responded, unimpressed.

Eames tilted his head, giving him a considering look. “Aren’t you supposed to stay off your feet? What with the little one and all.”

Arthur stiffened. “Are you suggesting I’m not taking good care of it?”

“It?” Eames asked, arching an eyebrow. “You mean the baby? Or have we decided to take the ever reliable denial approach, dear?”

Arthur saw red. “Oh, right? I’m in denial!” he yelled, barely feeling his nails dig into the palms of his clenched fists. “I’m the one who can no longer walk because of this… ,“ he angrily gestured at his swollen stomach. “This. And I’m the one who couldn’t eat because I was throwing up all the time and am now eating things that I know just the thought of will make me throw up in years to come. Oh and let’s not forget that I can’t work anymore because who wants to hire a hormonal pregnant male who can’t even use somnacin because it will endanger the…. fetus. But that’s okay because how would I be able to sleep for a profession when I can’t even sleep at night because it begins kicking my bladder ANY time I even think about laying down! You’re … You just left! You haven’t been here in the pass six months! So how am I the one in denial?”

Eames stared at him for a moment, before his own eyes narrowed into a glare. “I left?” he asked incredulously. “You bloody threw me out, you twat! You told me I was too irresponsible and dangerous to allow near… Wait, let me be sure I remember correctly. I believe you said a cactus. Yes, you said too irresponsible and dangerous to let around a cactus, let alone a child.“

“And how was I wrong? Look where we are, Eames! Half the Russian mafia is scouring the city to kill you right now and you led them right to my apartment!”

“I thought they had gotten to you already!” Eames roared. And then he just stopped, his arms dropping to the side and his anger instantly dissipating. “They knew we were…. what we were. They said they were going to kill you in front of me and I just…” he trailed off in defeat, rubbing the side of his face.

“So you came to my apartment knowing it was a trap?” Arthur asked, his anger returning after it had melted away in the face of Eames’ distress only moments before. “Are you…” But Arthur was cut off as he felt the familiar tightening of his muscles radiate from his pelvis and up his stomach. He hunched over slightly, attempting to alleviate the pain.

“Arthur, what’s wrong?” He heard Eames’ frantic footsteps as he rushed over and felt a hand rest on his hardening stomach. “What was that?” Eames yelped, quickly retracting his hand. Arthur would have laughed at his reaction if he was not in so much pain.

“Nothing,” Arthur panted out.

“Arthur,” Eames muttered, a slight warning in his tone.

The muscles in Arthur’s stomach relaxed and he took it as an indication to do the same. “Braxton-Hicks contraction,” he said, slowly straightening up. “They aren’t…. It’s fine. They are just practice contractions. It doesn’t mean... anything.”

Eames’ worried gaze remained on his stomach. “Are you sure?” Arthur simply glared, silently daring Eames to question him. “Ok, well just sit down then,” Eames acquiesced, though he did not sound too convinced.

Arthur shook his head, pulling away from Eames. “We don’t have time for this. We need to plan and…”

Eames sighed and began pulling him towards the pullout bed. “Arthur, we’re stuck here for awhile. So no plans. No anything. We are just going to relax on this comfy bed here where I can stretch out my legs because I’m exhausted from…”

“Don’t patronize me, you condescending prick,” Arthur snapped. He still allowed Eames to help him sit down, though, pulling his legs up to stretch them out in front of him. He sighed in relief, as his body took its first opportunity to relax since Eames knocked on his door this morning.

Eames sat down next to him, placing his gun on the box beside the bed, and they sat silently for awhile. Arthur slowly melted into the surprisingly soft bedding and his eyes slipped shut.

Arthur felt himself slipping off to sleep when a gentle hand was placed on his stomach and a nose nuzzled the spot behind his ear that always made him weak at the knees.

The child kicked the exact spot Eames’ hand rested and he felt more than heard Eames’ breath hitch.

“I should have stayed,” Eames whispered in his ear. Arthur’s stomach flipped, for the first time in the past nine months not because of the child in there. But he kept his breathing steady and pretended to be asleep until he actually slipped into a gentle doze.


	3. Shit Hits the Fan

“Well, darling, it looks like we won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.” Arthur glanced at where Eames was keeping watch at the window while he had taken a much needed shower.

Raking a hand through the wet hair hanging loosely in his eyes, Arthur shrugged and dropped heavily onto the couch. “Haven’t gone anywhere in months anyway,” he murmured tiredly, throwing an arm across his eyes and rubbing his sore back with his other hand. Apparently, even a ten minute shower could exhaust him enough to undo a two hour long nap.

Pregnancy sucked.

Arthur heard a snort and footsteps as Eames made his way to the bathroom. The door slammed shut and Arthur sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the lumpy cushion. He was falling back asleep when the clenching began in his lower stomach. Breathing through the pain, Arthur pressed a hand to his stomach to feel the hardening muscles. The contractions had woken him up from his first nap. Then he had three more during his shower. He did not acknowledge the fact that the contractions were coming much closer and lasting much longer.

Arthur panted and groaned, shifting as the painful vice tightened within him. Then he felt something shift inside of him, the sensation of the child moving lower.

“Shit,” he growled, curling into himself to escape the pain. He dropped to a crouch, barely feeling it as his knees crashed to the ground. Huffing, Arthur slowly rocked as the pain peaked.

“Love, what is it? Please talk to me.“ Arthur was so focused on regulating his harsh breathing that he had not even realized Eames was right beside him. Clenching his eyes closed, Arthur just shook his head and continued rocking.

Did Eames honestly expect him to be able talk at a moment like this?

Arthur could feel shaking hands stroking his back. As the pain finally tapered off, he slowly exhaled and leaned back against the couch. He opened his eyes and watched as Eames’ anxious gaze searched his body for obvious injury.

Eames’ concerned gaze then met his own. Arthur sighed shakily. “I’m in labor,” he admitted, both to Eames and himself.

Oh god, he was in labor.

Arthur managed to reign in his own panic as Eames’ face drained of color. Eames reached into the pocket that Arthur knew always contained his poker chip. “When… Since when?” he choked out.

Arthur shrugged, looking away from Eames’ terrified stare. “Awhile,” he murmured.

“You think this is something you might have wanted to mention before?” Eames yelled, shifting closer to Arthur despite his apparent anger. “Darling, this is not the time or place.”

“My apologies, Mr. Eames. Would you like me to cross my legs and wait for a more opportune moment for you?” Arthur asked, conscious of the emotionless tone and expression he had perfected as a point man. The tone and expression he often used when he intended to rile Eames up.

“You’re an unbelievable git, you know that right?” Eames responded, gritting his teeth.

“Yes, well, thanks.” Arthur used Eames’ shoulder to help pull himself up. “Your input is as helpful as usual.”

Eames quickly followed, catching Arthur as he wavered on his feet. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Moving. That floor is disgusting. Have you ever cleaned this place? Or do you enjoy the idea of tetanus?” Arthur pushed away from Eames, stretching the sore muscles in his back as he shuffled slowly towards the kitchen area.

“You can’t keep avoiding the bloody subject,” Eames argued, glaring at Arthur as he found an empty glass on the counter. Arthur rinsed it off and poured himself some water.

“I’m not,” he responded, taking a sip. Perhaps not one of his strongest arguments, but Arthur had more important things to think about. Like his ever-increasing contractions, which meant he was actually in labor. There would be incredible pain and then a child. Here. With him and Eames. Arthur, Eames, a baby, and this shitty apartment.

Arthur did not realize he was hyperventilating until Eames grabbed the glass that fell from his lax grip and then pulled him into his arms. “Shh, you’re alright,” Eames murmured, stroking his back. Arthur inhaled the familiar scent and took comfort in the embrace that he had missed so much over these past months. He felt his body slowly relax.

That is, until, the next contraction suddenly overcame him. Groaning, Arthur dropped his head onto Eames’ shoulder and tightened his fists around the fabric of Eames’ shirt. He could hear Eames’s voice but could not concentrate enough to make out the words. As the pain and building pressure in his lower regions increased, his trembling legs collapsed beneath him. Eames caught him and led him to a nearby chair.

The moment he was sitting, Arthur grabbed onto the armrests and rocked his body through the waves of pain. The movement did very little to help with the pain radiating from his midriff. Eventually (too long, Arthur thought) the contraction ended.

Eames was kneeling in front of him, concern etched in his every feature. “Okay now?” he asked.

“No,” Arthur said, still breathing heavily. “I’m in fucking labor. And there’s no hospital or doctors or… drugs. There was supposed to be drugs,” he spat, glaring at the anxious man kneeling before him.

Eames shakily nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Then we’ll go to a hospital with the nice doctors and good drugs, yea?” He leaned forward, placing his arms around Arthur as if to pick him up.

Arthur pushed his arms away. “What are you doing?” he asked, incredulous.

“Taking you to the hospital,” Eames answered with a furrowed brow.

“Are you an idiot? Don’t you think they will be watching the hospitals? They’ll kill…” Arthur was cut off by another contraction. He grabbed onto Eames’ forearm and squeezed at the moment the familiar pain hit. But this time there was a slight change as Arthur felt the urge to push. He grunted as he felt his body bear down and the child shift lower. Cursing under his breath, he tightened his grip on Eames’ arm as he concentrated on not pushing. “No… hospital,” he gasped out.

“Arthur,” Eames murmured, “I know… I screwed up. A lot. I shouldn’t have left that day, even though you were being a right prat.” Arthur smirked at that, but then moaned. Eames rubbed the tense muscles at his lower back. “Please, this is the one thing that I can do. I can make sure you two are safe. Let me take you to the hospital.” It was the sincerest that Arthur had ever seen the forger.

Arthur shook his head. “If we…go, you’ll die. I can’t,” he grunted. He paused, unable to speak as the pressure and urge to push built to unbearable levels. He took a few ragged breaths as it died down. “I need you alive,” he admitted, staring at a point beyond Eames’ head.

Eames tugged his chin so that Arthur was looking him in the eye. He leaned forward and his lips were on Arthur’s. It was tentative, at first. Then Arthur opened his mouth, giving Eames room to explore. He pulled Eames closer as their tongues collided. Eames bit Arthur's lower lip, the way that used to make Arthur come undone, and he moaned.

But the moan of pleasure turned to pain as Arthur felt the beginning of a fresh wave of pain. He struggled through it with his body tilted towards Eames’ and his hand crushing Eames’ arm. Arthur continued to fight the urge to push, despite his body’s protests. “If he inherits your teeth, I’ll fucking kill you,” he panted, as it ended. “You’re paying for the goddamn braces.”

“Language, dear. Don’t want the brat to pick up any naughty behavior too early,” Eames said with a smirk. Then he stiffened. “He?” he whispered.

Arthur nodded, watching as a genuine smile spread across Eames’ face. “A boy,” he murmured, awed, as his hand rested on Arthur’s stomach. “Our son.”


	4. And Suddenly Things Aren't So Shitty

The contractions were definitely coming faster now, Arthur realized. He was barely even able to catch his breath in between them anymore.

Arthur had just relaxed back into the chair after a particularly strong one, enjoying the brief respite, when he felt Eames come up beside him. Eames placed a pile of surprisingly clean towels and a first aid kit on the table.

"If we're not going to a hospital, we need to get ready," he said, picking up one of the towels and moving to spread it over the foldout bed.

"Not here. In the bathroom," Arthur quietly responded, opening the hard blue case of the first aid kid and staring wide eyed at its contents. He was seriously about to give birth with only a few bandaids, a couple of alcohol swipes, and a half a bottle of aspirin for in case something went wrong.

Oh, yes. And the five condoms Eames apparently stored in the kit the last time he deemed it necessary to replenish it. Of course now would be the time when he remembered to bring them.

Sometimes (most of the time) Arthur just really wanted to punch Eames in the nuts.

Eames turned to him, confused and completely oblivious to the hostile thoughts being projected towards him. "Arthur, you'll be more comfortable on..."

"The bathroom's cleaner," Arthur interrupted. And the cleaner the environment the safer the birth. That's why doctors sterilized everything. It was the most logical course of action.

This Arthur could do. Planning. Preparation. He was a pointman. It was his job to be able to quickly adapt to a change of circumstances and formulate a new plan at a moment's notice.

"Put this in the bathroom," Arthur ordered, feeling slightly calmer as he took control. Eames nodded, wordlessly picking up the supplies and carrying them to the bathroom.

Arthur could tell Eames was panicking. The only time he was quiet was when he was truly panicking. At any other time, this would be a nice change from his usual obnoxious taunting. But right now Arthur just needed him to act normal so he could pretend that this was like any other job.

Though, normally when Arthur was on a job, he was about thirty pounds lighter.

And not delivering Eames' spawn, Arthur thought as his stomach tightened and fresh pain overcame him. He groaned, dropping his chin to his chest as he allowed himself a tiny push when the pressure to do so became overwhelming. But then he clenched his thighs together and stubbornly rode out the rest of the contraction.

Arthur could feel it dying down when Eames came back, reaching down to pick him up. Arthur gripped Eames' wrist and shook his head. "Wait," he gasped, "I can walk." He waited until the lingering pain had once again retreated and shakily stood with Eames' help. They slowly moved into the bathroom with Eames' arm around him, practically holding him up.

Eames had spread out the towels on the narrow floor, the kit propped open on the sink. Arthur allowed Eames to lower him onto the towels, his back pressed against the side of the tub. By the time he was settled, he was still panting from the short walk from the kitchen.

Eames stood again and swiftly washed his hands before crouching back down near Arthur's legs. "I have to take off your pants, love," he said, already reaching for the waistband of the sweats he had loaned Arthur after his shower. Arthur wordlessly nodded, too stunned by the uncharacteristic lack of innuendo. Eames' face was expressionless as he helped Arthur peel off the sweats and then arranged Arthur's leg so he could look between.

“Oh Christ!”

Arthur attempted to sit up straighter, trying to see what Eames staring at. “What?” he asked, panicking as he took in Eames' shocked expression.

“I see…" Eames paused. "He has hair,” he slowly responded, still gaping between Arthur's legs.

Arthur exhaled in relief and dropped his head against the ridge of the tub. “Would you rather he be bald?” he muttered, staring at the stained ceiling.

Eames snorted. “I’d rather he stay inside a little longer,” he replied, finally sitting back up again and anxiously rubbing his neck.

Arthur groaned with the new contraction. “Not... happening,” he grinded out, digging his nails into the soft fabric of the towels beneath him.

“Okay, okay. Alright.” Eames cleared his throat, visibly forcing himself to calm down. “He’ll be fine,” he said, placing his hand on Arthur's knee and squeezing gently. Arthur could not tell if he was trying to assure Arthur or himself, but he nodded anyway and gritted his teeth. Taking as deep a breath as possible, he closed his eyes and pushed.

"Oh," Arthur heard Eames exclaim. "He's moving. He's coming." The forger sounded shocked. Good, the bastard was catching on.

It really hurt.

It just... really really hurt. Arthur would welcome being shot, stabbed, tortured... Anything over this.

He pushed until he just he couldn't push anymore, but the pain and the pressure remained. “Get him the fuck out!” Arthur yelled, glaring at Eames.

Eames looked terrified, but he tightened his grip on Arthur's knee and comfortingly rubbed against the side of Arthur's contracting stomach. “Don’t worry, tadpole," he said to Arthur's stomach, his voice shaky and his gaze still worriedly affixed to Arthur's face. "Mummy doesn’t mean it. He’s just a little cranky.”

His tense body sunk back into the cushioned ground as the contraction ended. “Do not fucking call me that,” he weakly ordered.

“But he can’t call us both daddy," Eames murmured, still gently stroking Arthur's stomach. "He’ll get confused.”

“Then you be the goddamn Mummy," Arthur snapped, pushing Eames' hands away. "If I have to push him out, then you’re going to be the fucking mother.”

Eames gave him a gentle smile. “Darling, I believe there is a flaw in that logic,” he retorted, placing his hand back on top of Arthur's and rubbing his thumb against Arthur's knuckles. Arthur only allowed him this one moment of clinginess because the next contraction was so suddenly painful that he could not waste the energy on trying to control Eames' annoying tendancy towards touching.

And if he gripped Eames' hand tighter it was only because this was all Eames' fault and he deserved to potentially have his hand broken while Arthur was trying to bring his child into the world.

“Are you... seriously... arguing with me right... now?” he huffed out, before attempting another push. Still really goddamn painful.

“I’m just trying to take your mind off the pain,” Eames answered distractedly, looking back between Arthur's legs. Arthur could feel the body shifting downwards as he pushed as well as a burning sensation between his legs.

“It’s not working,” he growled, pressing a hand to his stomach.

Eames nods. “I’m know, love,” he murmured apologetically.

The next contraction came just as the last one ended. It was an endless cycle of mind-numbing pain and pressure that felt like the child was attempting to ram his way out. He could hear Eames babbling soothing encouragements in the background and Arthur tried, really tried to push. But it hurt too much.

Everything was just too much.

“Dom said he’d raise him,” Arthur pantingly blurted out.

Eames looks up at him from where he was watching the child's progress between Arthur's trembling thighs. “What?” he asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Arthur groaned and bit back any other sounds as a small push caused the child to make violent move downward. “He... told me... if I.... couldn’t," he paused when it became too difficult to talk, breath, and not scream through the pain. "I can't do this," he whispered, reaching for Eames' hand. He kept their eyes locked, despite the wounded expression on Eames' face that caused his heart to clench and made him want to quickly retract his words. But he meant them and he willed Eames to understand how woefully unprepared and incapable Arthur was of raising a child. "Dom can raise him,” he said, his words ending with a moan.

Eames sadly studied his face. He leaned over and gently brushed back the sweat drenched hair sticking to Arthur's forehead. "When I left," he stopped, exhaling shakily, "I thought I was doing the right thing. I'm irresponsible and selfish and dangerous and... I didn't want to stop to raise a child," Eames admitted, his tone drenched in self-loathing. He cupped a hand over Arthur's cheek and Arthur leaned into it, a small comfort in the wave of another contraction. "But the whole time I thought about you and this little one. And when they told me they were going to hurt you, I was going to kill them. Without hesitation or thought or... Because I realized you, both of you, mean more to me than anything. Even my own life.”

“I want us to be together. All three of us,” Eames said, his expression a cross between determination and pleading. “I’m not leaving again. No matter what. You can say anything you want about me and I swear will never leave you again,” he promised, twining his fingers with Arthur’s lax ones.

Arthur gripped Eames’ hand tightly, clenching his teeth. He shook his head and closed his eyes so he did not have to see Eames’ hopeful expression. “I’ll hurt him. I can’t even hold a baby. I dropped Phillipa when she was six months old.” Arthur’s eyes shot open and he grabbed Eames’ arm. “Don’t tell, Dom,” he begged.

Eames gently unwrapped Arthur’s hand from around his bicep and kissed it. “And look at her? She’s brilliant. Babies are durable. And we’ll love him. That’s all that matters.”

Arthur dropped his head to Eames’ shoulder and released a shuttering cry as he pushed with the contraction. “We’re criminals,” he gasped.

“We’ll figure it out later, alright?” Eames said, shifting back between Arthur’s legs. Arthur watched Eames’ hand disappear between his thighs. “But let’s just concentrate on getting the sprog out now.”

With no other choice, Arthur nodded and began pushing once again. He gasped, moving back against the edge of the tub in an attempt to escape from the pain. “Please… stop,” he breathlessly begged. “Burning,” he tried to tell Eames, full sentences beyond him at this point.

“Keep going,” Eames was saying and Arthur did. Then suddenly the burning pressure reached a peak and he felt the head slip out. “Alright, stop, stop, stop,” he could hear Eames yelling at him.

Arthur complied, gasping and looking at Eames in disbelief. “What?”

“Need to make sure the cord’s not around the neck,” Eames explains, his hands and half of Eames’ face disappearing from Arthur’s line of view as he worked beneath Arthur’s large bump. Eames glanced up at Arthur and smiled sheepishly, “I saw it on the telly once.”

Arthur glared, unconsciously grunting as he forced his body to not act on its urge to push. “Hurry… up,” he growled.

“Alright your fine,” Eames told him, his hands supporting the child’s exposed head. Arthur nodded in acknowledgment and clung to the edge of the tub as he felt a shoulder shift forward. “He has a head and a shoulder,” Eames informed him, a goofy grin on his face as he stared down in wonder.

“Thank… God,” Arthur huffed. He slightly raised his upper body and then focused every ounce of energy on a single, powerful push. He felt the bulge between his legs slip out and instantly dropped, boneless, onto the towel. Arthur felt sweaty and sticky and sore and disgusting, but completely ignored his discomfort for five breathless seconds.

Until he heard the screeching cry of two tiny lungs, followed by a tearful laugh from a much larger set.

Only then Arthur could acknowledge the fact that he was most probably covered in disgusting fluids from the waist down.

“Hello, love. You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, haven’t you?” Arthur heard Eames say to the screaming child. “Look, darling.” Arthur opened his eyes and saw Eames beaming down at the bundle of tiny, flailing limbs in his arms. He grinned at Arthur. Then he slowly shuffled closer and gently placed the child in his arms.

Arthur carefully tightened his arms around the infant. He was a squalling red, slimy mess. “You kicked a lot,” he informed the child. The child’s only acknowledgement was a pitiful sniffle. Arthur trailed a finger down his dirty cheek. The child shifted his head towards Arthur’s finger, tiny eyes opening slightly and squinting. Arthur gave him a small smile. “He’s perfect,” he murmured.

“Of course he is,” Eames agreed, stroking a hand over the infant’s soft head. “And look, you’re not hurting him.”

Arthur stared at his son and slowly nodded. He took a deep breath and looked up at the forger, who had awe etched across his face as he traced a finger across the child’s cheek. “You’re still paying for his braces,” Arthur sternly told him. “And you’re changing every single one of his diapers.” Eames momentarily gaped at him and then giddily nodded, smiling broadly. He leaned in and kissed Arthur soundly, careful not to squash the baby.

They pulled away when the little boy unexpectedly squawked. Arthur chuckled, resting his forehead against Eames’. “I’m giving the sex talk, though,” Arthur whispered. “I won’t let you corrupt him.” Eames laughed and then gently stroked the baby’s nose when the loud noise disturbed him.

They just sat there quietly, the three of them, until Arthur’s arms began to tremble with exhaustion.

Eames softly kissed him again before reaching out and taking the infant back. “We’re just gonna get cleaned up, yea?” he said, carefully standing and moving towards the sink.

Arthur eyes drifted shut as he listened to the sound of running water and Eames softly speaking to the infant. He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew Eames was kneeling in front of him, cupping his cheek. Arthur looked at his empty arms./

“Where’s the baby?”

Eames tilted his head towards a cardboard box near the bathroom door. Arthur could see the baby lying within it on a cushion of clean towels. And apparently swaddled in Eames’ tweed jacket.

Of fucking course Eames would already start corrupting him at ten minutes old.

Eames chuckled when he saw the look on Arthur’s voice and gave him a peck on the cheek before helping Arthur up so he could quickly clean himself in the tub and then slip the soft sweatpants over his shaking limbs.

And that was about when Arthur ran out of steam. He did not even have the energy to lift his head from where it fell on Eames’ shoulder. Eames gently picked him up and carried him to the pullout bed. Arthur groaned as his sore body relaxed into the stiff mattress and his eyes slipped shut again.

A few moments later, the bed dipped and he opened his eyes to see Eames sitting next to him, holding the tweed covered baby. “And here we are in the rest of the apartment, tadpole. It’s not much to look at, but don’t worry. You won’t be living here. You, me, and daddy are going to get a nice big house just for you,” he decidedly informed the sleeping child.

Arthur tiredly smiled. “Don’t call him tadpole,” he murmured.

“He loves it,” Eames responded, trailing a finger down the baby’s nose.

“It’s a stupid name.” Arthur reached up and touched a tiny hand. He studied the little fingers. All ten of them. He would never after this moment admit to anyone that he did something so inane as count his fingers… but for some inexplicable reason, Arthur just needed to know they were all there. That he really was fine.

“Well it obviously isn’t his name, love,” Eames responded. “It’s a nickname.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes . “Okay. It’s a stupid nickname.”

Eames pouted. “But, kitten, you love my nicknames.”

“Shut up,” Arthur retorted, blinking sleepily at him

“Alright, then what will we call him?” Eames asked, grinning as the baby’s mouth slowly opened and closed in his sleep.

“I don’t know,” Arthur sighed. He had specifically not thought about it for most of his pregnancy. When Eames had left, he had resigned himself to being Uncle Arthur a few times a year while Dom raised the baby. Now everything was different.

Eames stared at Arthur a moment. Then he shifted over so his body was pressed against Arthur’s side and placed the baby in arms again. “We can’t just call him ‘he’ for the rest of our lives,” he said, leaning his head against Arthur’s shoulder and stroking the baby’s tiny fingers with a single much larger one. “How about Rupert?”

“God no,” Arthur responded, shifting his son more comfortably on his lap.

Eames quirked an eyebrow at him. “Why not?”

Arthur studied the child’s face and shook his head. “It’s too… English.”

“What’s wrong with being English?” Eames asked, though he sounded more amused than offended.

 “Nothing,” Arthur murmured, wrinkling in his nose. “It’s just… not right.”

“So I’m guessing Nigel and Reginald are also out?”

Arthur briefly glared at the smirking father of his child, but then turned back to the baby. It was difficult to verbalize what the problem was, even in Arthur’s own head. Those names just did not feel right.

“Fine,” Eames retorted with a snort. He leaned over and pulled the baby back into his own arms. “Seems your father is a bit of a bigot, tadpole,” he told the child. Eames held the infant close to his face, inspecting him. “How about… Daniel?”

“Daniel,” Arthur repeated, watching the child shift slightly in his sleep. He slowly smiled, “Yea, Daniel. I like that.”

Eames grinned at him and then turned back to Daniel. “Hello, Daniel. I’m your father. We’re going to have a lot of fun, yea?” he said to the child. Arthur closed his eyes and listened to Eames softly speak. “And that’s your daddy. Sometimes, he’ll be a stick in the mud and try to ruin our fun by saying you’re too young or it’s illegal or some such nonsense. But we’ll still love him.” Arthur smiled, opening his eyes slightly. Eames chuckled, pressing a kiss to his forehead and then doing the same to Daniel. “But then we’ll just do it anyway because pickpocketing and hardwiring cars are very important skills,” he whispered to Daniel.

Arthur snorted. He realized that was probably exactly what their future would be like.

Arthur kind of liked the sound of that.

“Later,” Eames continued, “after the Russian mafia decides to go away, we’ll go to a doctor so he can tell us how perfect and healthy you are. But now we’re all going to take a nap. Because I’m exhausted. I did a lot of hard work to get you here, you know? What with the catching and what not.”

Arthur would have rolled his eyes if he had the energy to open them.

Arthur was almost asleep when he hard Eames whisper, “But, darling, we haven’t decided on his last name yet.”

“Shut up and sleep or I’ll stab you,” Arthur muttered, burying his face in the pillow.

Arthur could practically hear Eames grinning. “Not now, pet. I’m basking in the moment.”’


End file.
